I used to think I was tired of living.
Well… I still am. That part hasn't changed.
But if I ever had to choose how to go out, I always figured it'd be something simple—dying in my sleep, maybe getting my life drained by an Eidolon if the universe was feeling dramatic. Anything but this.
Being on the verge of turning into a full Eidolon myself?
Being hunted by the authorities, the military, or—God forbid—the Halo Division?
Yeah. Hard pass.
That's why I didn't wait until I was completely out of suppressants before signing up. I wasn't trying to be a hero. I was just trying to avoid becoming a target.
I stood in front of the huge recruitment poster, staring up at the bold letters stretched across the top:
HALO DIVISION: PROTECTING WHAT'S LEFT OF HUMANITY.
The slogan always tried way too hard.
I sighed and headed toward the entrance anyway.
The actual base sat past a tall steel fence topped with crowned razor wire. Through it, I could see soldiers jogging in formation, their boots slamming the ground in perfect rhythm. Others were doing drills—push-ups, weapon checks, close-combat practice. The whole place buzzed with the sharp, rigid energy of people who woke up every day fully prepared to die for something.
Couldn't relate.
Dozens of recruits stood in front of me in neat lines, all shifting nervously or staring ahead like they were trying to look tougher than they felt. I joined the back of the line, hands in my pockets, pretending I wasn't already regretting every decision that led me here.
"You do realize," Dakavoth's voice slithered through my head, smooth and amused, "that this is the most pathetic attempt at survival I've ever witnessed?"
I didn't respond. Not even mentally.
Ignoring him was easier than arguing, and he knew it.
When my turn finally came, a soldier stepped forward and held out his hand without looking at me. Bureaucratic efficiency at its finest.
I handed him the new ID card Dr. Mikel Riviero had given me.
A fresh classification, stamped in clean black lettering: A-Rank Malform.
The soldier didn't raise an eyebrow. Didn't blink. Didn't even slow down. Being an A-Rank wasn't rare, or shocking, or anything close to impressive. It was just another line in their system. Another potential weapon or liability they would sort through.
He murmured under his breath as he read the data aloud:
"Name… Nakamura Rei.
Age… twenty-six.
Malform Rank… A."
Then he stamped the card, the sound sharp and final.
"Follow the rest inside," he said, already moving on to the next person.
So I did.
Inside, the building opened into a wide hall packed with rows of metal chairs. Everything smelled like disinfectant, sweat, and old machinery. Recruits shuffled in, filling the seats while armed soldiers lined the walls, rifles hanging ready across their chests. No one talked; even breathing felt too loud here.
I dropped into an empty seat near the back as lights hummed above us.
A soldier stepped up to the podium—a tall, broad man with sharp features and a stare like he wanted everyone in the room dead but wasn't allowed to say it out loud. He wasn't alone. Four others flanked him: two soldiers like him, stiff in their uniforms, and two Halo Division operatives dressed in black combat gear.
One of them, a girl with red hair tied in a high tail, scanned the room with clear boredom. Her gaze slid past everyone… until it stopped on me. She held the stare a moment longer than felt normal. Or maybe it was just my imagination.
The other Halo Division operative, a guy with a smug face that deserved a punch, leaned lazily against the wall as if he didn't care about rules. But anyone with half a brain could tell why he and the redhead were here—just in case someone in this room decided to try something stupid.
The man at the podium finally spoke, his voice deep and sharp enough to cut steel.
"Welcome to the Halo Division orientation. I'm High Commander James Sulen. I oversee this entire operation, including all Malform deployments. I don't like any of you, and I won't pretend otherwise. But you're here because we need bodies who can survive more than five minutes on the field."
A few people shifted nervously.
Sulen didn't care.
"Let me make one thing clear. Once you sign your contract, there is no walking out. No second thoughts. No sudden desire to run home to your parents." He scanned the crowd. "If you want to leave, do it now."
A handful of recruits stood up, hesitant at first, and shuffled out. Sulen watched them go with an expression that barely hid contempt.
"Pathetic," he muttered, then cleared his throat. "Moving on."
He clasped his hands behind his back as he continued. "Those of you who stay will receive a week's worth of suppressants at the start of every week. You'll be on government payroll. You'll be given a place to sleep and meals that will keep you alive. Do not mistake this for generosity. This isn't hospitality; it's basic maintenance."
Some recruits looked relieved. Others looked like they'd just realized they'd signed their souls away.
"As for squad assignments"—his tone sharpened—"you will only be placed with others of your rank. We don't do that idiotic 'everyone works together' nonsense here. If you're C-Rank, you stay with C-Ranks. If you're B-Rank, you stay with B-Ranks. And if you're E-Rank, try not to die too fast."
His lips twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. He knew damn well ranks don't change or increase with time. That was the insult.
"Finally, each of you will be assigned to a squad and a commanding officer who'll make sure you don't get yourselves killed in the first week."
He turned and motioned to a small desk set up at the side of the hall, where another soldier stood with a clipboard.
"Over there is Captain Monrel. Hand him your cards. He'll assign you to your squads. That will be all."
Sulen stepped away from the podium, the four who accompanied him falling into formation as they left through a side door. The red-haired girl glanced my way again before disappearing after them. A second too long. Or maybe that was just me reading into it again.
Either way, it didn't matter.
I stood, slid my hands into my pockets, and joined the line forming at the desk.
Captain Monrel barely glanced at my card before sliding it into a scanner. The machine hummed, spat out a line of text, and he nodded as if the entire process bored him.
"A-Rank. Minagawa City," he said. "You'll be placed in the Minagawa A-Rank Squad. They're short one member."
He handed the card back and motioned to a soldier standing by the wall. "Escort him."
The soldier didn't smile or speak. He just jerked his head toward the hallway, and I followed. The building felt larger on the inside than it looked from outside, every corridor lined with reinforced doors and cameras that never blinked.
As we walked, the soldier finally muttered, "You're the only A-Rank we've had register this month."
He didn't sound impressed. Just tired.
I didn't answer. There was nothing to say.
He stopped in front of a heavy blast door and keyed in a code. The locks slid open one by one, clicking like bones. When the door finally parted, I stepped inside.
The chamber was massive—wide enough to fit a training field, tall enough for jump exercises, and built with materials that didn't crumble under A-Rank force. It smelled faintly of metal, sweat, and suppressant vapor.
Several A-Ranks were scattered around the space. Some sat on benches tightening gloves, others cleaned weapons or sparred casually as if they weren't capable of leveling buildings. They all paused for a moment when I entered, eyes tracking me the way predators looked at new predators.
And then I saw her.
The red-haired Halo Division operative from earlier sat on top of a metal crate, legs crossed, a datapad in her hand. When she sensed movement, she lifted her head. Her eyes landed on me and stayed there a little too long.
Or maybe, again, it just felt that way.
The blast door sealed shut behind me with a final, echoing thud.
Dakavoth's voice drifted through my mind, like he was amused.
"So this is your pack now. How fragile they look."